by Brynn Ford
I speak slowly and cautiously, aware that my emotions just got the best of me and I will not let that happen again. “After you eat, mal’chik, I want you to take a shower and get dressed. I’d like to take you to the dance studio today.”
His head snaps up. “You mean, leave the room?”
“Only so long as you are obedient. There is a man who serves Master to protect me. You’ve met him. That’s Kostya by the door.” I nod toward him in the doorway. “He brought you here.”
He scoffs, “Like I could forget.”
“He will hurt you if you try to hurt me. And then I will hurt you.”
“And then your master will hurt you for failing to break me?” he says it so plainly that it gives me pause.
I don’t respond to his question. I don’t want him to think I’m weak or that I’m afraid of my master.
I can’t show that I am.
“If you behave, you might get to dance for me today.”
He drops the spoon he was holding onto the tray, some of his fire returning as he stares up at me with narrowed eyes. “And if I don’t?”
I step forward into his space, looking down at him where he sits on the bed. “Then you’ll remain here, shackled and alone, wondering when your next meal will come. Does that seem like the more appealing option to you, Ezra?”
Ezra.
Shit.
I shouldn’t have said his name.
He tilts his head at me, and I know he knows I’ve slipped up. “No, it doesn’t.”
I straighten, lifting my chin. “Then you’ll obey.”
It’s a command, not a question.
He lifts an eyebrow and begins to eat slowly, so I step back. Several quiet moments pass in awkward silence before he speaks to me.
“Am I allowed to talk to you?”
I tilt my head, noticing the loneliness in his features. It’s a look that’s hard to recognize unless you’ve experienced it yourself.
And I have, in spades.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, thinking I should have pulled it back in a bun before coming in here. I look older, more serious with my hair pulled back tight.
“Yes, you’re allowed.”
“I know I’m supposed to call you master, but can you just tell me…is your name Anya?”
“Yes.”
“Nikolai is your master?”
“And yours.”
“Why? Why are we here? And why am I bound and mistreated while you have free range to go wherever you want?”
I chuckle, crossing my arms over my chest. “You haven’t even begun to understand mistreatment. I’ve earned certain freedoms and it’s taken me years of trust-building with my master. You should start by giving me your full submission and perhaps you’ll get lucky with similar freedoms.”
“I don’t believe in luck.”
“Neither do I.”
There was a pulse, a beat of connection and immediately, I knew I shouldn’t have allowed a concession in the form of agreement. All the same, I didn’t regret it. Especially when the corner of his lip ticked upward in an almost grin.
I need to get out of here.
“Do as you’re told, mal’chik. I’ll leave you to eat and shower.”
I reach into my pocket to pull out the small key that releases the latch of the metal cuff. I bend at the knees, lowering in front of him. I have to lift the hem of his jeans, sliding them up his leg to reveal the hidden latch of the cuff. My fingers graze his skin in the process and he jumps at my touch.
“Hold still,” I warn with a cold look. “If Kostya thinks you’re about to harm me, he may come after you and the result would be less than ideal.”
“Sorry, it was just…” he hesitates. “Your fingers are cold.”
I insert the key and twist it, relieving Ezra of the burden of being shackled. “Cold like my heart.” I stand. “Don’t mistake my conversation for connection, mal’chik. I’ll rip your heart in two if you make the mistake of thinking you and I are anything more than master and slave.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Master.” Sarcasm seeps from his pores like sweat, a natural response for him.
He angers me.
He lights a fire in my chest and it burns in my belly.
The almost welcome heat overwhelms me, and I reach out and slap him just to put out the fire. His head falls to the side, but before he can reach up to touch the spot where I hit him, I grab his chin and yank his head back to me. I sense Kostya moving in closer, on the defensive.
I bend and put my face close to Ezra’s, giving him all the coldness I can muster from deep within my wintery soul. “This is not a joke, mal’chik. If you had any idea what Nikolai is capable of, then you would cut the bullshit right now. I suggest you forget connection and conversation and get used to loneliness. It may save you in the end.”
Before I can read into the look of softness and sympathy behind his lively green eyes, I turn on my heel and storm out of the room. Kostya exits behind me and I lock the door as swiftly as I can manage. I dismiss Kostya, asking him to bring Ezra to me in the studio in an hour.
Emotion is welling again, and it threatens to break me entirely. As I rush off down the hallway, crossing the estate to the far end of the west wing to my room, I repeat my own words in my head, giving myself the same advice I’ve given to Ezra.
Embrace loneliness, Anya.
It will save you in the end.
Chapter 6
Anya
I’m rotating through a turn when I catch a glimpse of someone entering the studio. At first, I think it’s Kostya and Ezra, and I feel content with that, but as I land coming out of a second and third rotation, posing my arms gracefully, I see that’s its Nikolai.
He claps for me, the sound of it echoing in the expansive, open space of my dance studio. I take a bow in curtsy out of politeness—because he won’t tolerate otherwise—and he shoves his hands in his pockets, leaning his shoulder against the door frame.
I cross the room to stand in front of him and bow my head, waiting for him to speak or command.
“Is he ready to dance?” Nikolai asks.
“Da, khozyain. He kneeled for me today and obeyed my command. Kostya should be bringing him to me soon.”
“Good, I’ll stay and watch.”
My head whips up and I catch his gray eyes. “Why?”
I regret speaking almost as immediately as his cruel demeanor returns. Nikolai reaches out, grabs me by the back of my neck, and spins me. He whips me around with ease and slams me face-first into the mirrored wall beside the door. My hands come up to catch myself, palms flattening against the cold surface and I turn my head to the side just in time to avoid my nose crashing into it. It didn’t heal right the last time he broke it, and I don’t want to risk going through that again.
His body pins me to the mirror from behind as he curls around me, fingers digging into the side of my neck.
“Are you questioning me again, rabynya? I thought you learned your lesson the other night. Or are you just begging for a repeat?”
I keep my voice and my breath steady. “I’m sorry.”
“For?”
“For questioning you.”
I’m not allowed to ask questions.
I’m not allowed to misunderstand directions and ask for clarification.
I’m expected to know and obey.
Nikolai steps back but doesn’t let me go. Instead, he spins me around to face him before pressing his body into mine. His breath is on my face. It’s warm and smells of cigar smoke. He strokes the back of his hand gently down my cheek and I fight the urge to recoil, leaning into it to placate him instead of following my instinct to slap it away and run.
“Beautiful girl,” he croons, “I nearly miss the fight in you.”
He contradicts himself constantly.
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Why should he miss the fight in me when he wants my constant and consistent obedience?
“Maybe one day I will set you free in the forest…” He bends to whisper against my ear, “Chase after you, see which hunter finds you first this time, hmm? Will it be me or the wolves that prowl the tree line?”
I’m tempted to sneer at him and ask him what the difference would be, but I don’t. I know better than that. I swallow, considering that Ezra might’ve responded the way I wanted to given the manner in which I’ve witnessed him communicate with a sardonic temper.
I don’t like that Ezra has popped into my head again. It’s dangerous to think of the boy when Nikolai has a hold of me.
He’ll sense it.
Finally, I respond, “I’m certain it would be you.”
He presses a soft kiss to my lips then pauses as he pulls back to look at me. “Yes, I imagine it would. Just as it was when you tried to escape the first time. And aren’t you lucky I found you first?”
No.
“Da, moy khozyain.”
A throat is cleared nearby and we both look to see Kostya standing in the doorway. Nikolai lets me go and walks away to the far corner of the studio.
There’s a black, grand piano there, though I’m never granted the privilege of a live player. I think its presence speaks to Nikolai’s self-aggrandization. He fills his home with the appearance of culture and refinement, though he possesses none naturally.
He sits on the bench and waits for me to welcome Ezra to the studio, to direct him, to command him. He’s never come in this early to view me with another partner and the thought of it makes my nerves pulse with anxiety. I clench my hands into fists to hide the way they tremble.
Why is he here?
Nikolai could easily just watch from the security camera. There are only two inside Mikhailov Manor and one of them is here, inside the dance studio. The other is just outside the boardroom, near Nikolai’s home office. The rest are on the exterior grounds to monitor for escapees or unwanted guests—as if anyone could find the manor if they didn’t know exactly where it was.
It was curious to me early in my captivity that there weren’t more cameras inside the manor to monitor my behavior, but I quickly learned that secret-keeping is taken rather seriously by the four families.
There are secrets no family wants on camera.
Kostya grabs Ezra by the shoulder, nudging him into the room before pressing his hand between his shoulder blades and shoving. Ezra stumbles but recovers, shooting daggers at Kostya as he looks back at him over his shoulder.
I move to the center of the room and turn to face Ezra. “Come. Kneel.”
His forehead wrinkles as he surveys the space, noting Nikolai in the corner. Ezra’s eyes linger on Nikolai as he slowly makes his way toward me. When Ezra decides to give me his attention, our eyes connect, blue meeting green, and I feel a pause.
I don’t know how else to think of it.
It’s a pause in existence.
Briefer than a moment, a quick beat of calmness, nothingness.
It’s pleasant.
He lowers to his knees in front of me and I gasp because I truly expected his fight to return the moment Kostya brought him out of his room. His eyes are still locked on mine and when I go to look for it, I see it there, the fight in him. It hasn’t gone completely, he’s just hiding it away, biding his time.
That should scare me to know he’s still got that hope that the fight is worthwhile because it means I’ll struggle to control him. Instead, I find that I’m glad it’s still there, that he’s still there.
I’m thinking about him as if I know him.
We don’t know each other.
“Eyes on the floor, mal’chik,” I command and I’m grateful that he obeys. “I want to see you dance today. I want you to show me your best solo, let me get a sense of what you can do.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, and I can see his brow wrinkling in consideration.
“Can you dance in what you’re wearing?”
I rake my eyes over the outfit he’s chosen, unsurprisingly similar to what he wore when I first saw him a week ago. Ripped, faded, well-worn jeans and a simple black T-shirt with a logo for a band or something that I don’t recognize. I want to ask him about it, though I’m not sure why. I have no idea what bands or movies or books are popular now. Three years is a long time, and I’m sure much of the outside world has changed, gone on without me.
He nods and mutters, “Yes.”
“What kind of music do you need?”
He shrugs. “Anything is fine. I’ll freestyle.”
I scoff, “I want to see your best, not some random contemporary bullshit.”
His head whips up to look at me. “It’s not random bullshit, I know what the fuck I’m—”
I slap him.
Not because I want to.
Not because I would if we were alone together, though I certainly would have given him a verbal lashing all the same.
I hit him because Nikolai is watching, and he expects it.
Ezra’s hand touches his cheek and his eyes burn green fire to ignite the air between us. My breath catches at the look, but I maintain my composure.
“If you’re so sure of yourself, then I expect you to blow me away. Stand up and get ready. You dance when the music starts.”
I steal a quick glance at Nikolai—a quick look for reassurance that he is pleased with my outburst to discipline. He tilts his head down, a subtle nod of approval, and I exhale.
I catch Ezra glaring at Nikolai when I look back down at him. But then he looks up at me. A shimmer of understanding dances between us and I feel it stir a long-forgotten feeling of connection, of attachment.
Though I wish I could explore this look a little longer, I know I can’t.
I whip around Ezra and march across the dance floor, hoping my face isn’t as visibly flushed as it feels. I cross to where Nikolai is perched on the piano bench. The stereo system is behind him, nestled into the wall.
I scroll through the selection of songs on the touchscreen to find something slow, dramatic, emotional. Something that will be fitting for him as a contemporary dancer.
Though I never cared to showcase my other partners in their own style, I feel a misplaced need to ensure I give Ezra the best shot to impress Nikolai.
I shouldn’t care.
He’ll be dancing in my style anyway. Ballet is what I’ve trained to dance since childhood and it’s what Nikolai stole me away to do—to be his own personal ballerina. It’s my job to train my partners to be the perfect complement for me in my style.
I don’t understand the anxiety that overcomes me in hopes that Ezra isn’t too weak to perform spectacularly, especially when I don’t even know whether he is a spectacular dancer.
I find the song I’m looking for and turn back to see if Ezra is ready. He’s standing, though he bends to remove his socks and shoes and moves to place them against the back wall of the room, beneath the barre. He blows out a shaky breath with his lips formed in an “O” shape.
He tilts his head from side to side, stretching his neck, and shakes out his hands and legs. A piece of dirty blonde hair from the longer strands on top of his head falls across his forehead. He brushes it out of his eyes with a flick of his wrist as he lifts his head, searching the room to find me.
I could never miss that green fervor from his eyes shining across the room at me. He gives me a small nod to indicate that he is ready for the music. It’s such a normal look, a simple nonverbal communication, the most basic thing…yet it feels so profound.
I nod and he stills. Without looking away, I tap the screen where my finger hovers over the play button and the music gradually rolls in.
He’s still looking at me.
He grasps the hem of his shirt and lifts, peeling it up an
d over his torso, exposing his chest.
And he’s still looking at me.
He sways, a soft movement, a gentle rocking from side to side as he stands in the center of the dance floor, bare-chested, bare-footed, wearing only the jeans that are torn and frayed over one knee.
And he’s still looking at me.
I shudder when he takes a step and glides right into a coupé turn, spinning three, four, five times with the toe of his left foot resting against his right ankle to form a triangle through his rotations. His balance is impeccable as he leaps out from the turn with impressive strength and height.
I’m already speechless with the first count of eight, and I can’t tear my eyes away.
I’ve never enjoyed contemporary dance. It doesn’t follow the strict rules of classical ballet that I thrive on. It takes liberties, breaks contracts, defies conventions.
But Ezra.
Ezra is…a word I can’t think of.
Perhaps there isn’t a single word for the way he dances.
Perhaps there are too many.
Powerful, graceful, dangerous, beautiful, reckless.
His use of the floor is brilliant. He alternates through turns and remarkable leaps, drawing a large oval around the room with the trail of his movement.
His leaps are the most impressive thing of all. I’ve seen dancers who can leap gracefully, and I’ve seen dancers who can leap powerfully. I’ve never seen one who could do both so exquisitely as this.
The way he twists and turns his lean muscle, dipping to the floor, tumbling over his shoulder, rising again only to spin and push out into another extraordinary leap.
I can’t speak.
The song ends long before I think it should, though it still takes me too long to realize it. Ezra has ended his improvised performance like a warrior, kneeling on one knee, fist to the floor, chest heaving as he catches his breath, looking like Superman himself has fallen to the Earth. Every muscle in his chiseled frame is rigid in the picturesque pose.
He tosses his hair out of his face as he lifts his head and looks up. Sweat gives his skin a glossy sheen which emphasizes the enormity of the work he’s just accomplished.
I’m stilled, astounded by his talent, and I feel something I haven’t in a very long time.